East and West Poems

Lone Mountain

(Cemetery, San Francisco)

Bret Harte

THIS is that hill of awe
That Persian Sindbad saw,—
        The mount magnetic;
And on its seaward face,
Scattered along its base,
        The wrecks prophetic.

Here come the argosies
Blown by each idle breeze,
        To and fro shifting;
Yet to the hill of Fate
All drawing, soon or late,—
        Day by day drifting;—

Drifting forever here
Barks that for many a year
        Braved wind and weather;
Shallops but yesterday
Launched on yon shining bay,—
        Drawn all together.

This is the end of all:
Sun thyself by the wall,
        O poorer Hindbad!
Envy not Sindbad’s fame:
Here come alike the same
        Hindbad and Sindbad.

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